I lived 17 years in Minnesota—a place I still love dearly.  

When we moved there from southern California, we didn’t know anyone, and we had no idea what to do in winter. 

Our first stop was a Lands’ End store. We went in and said, “Help!” The employees accepted the challenge and taught us the difference between snow bibs and snow pants (snow bibs, like overalls, are great for kindergartners; snow pants are preferred by older kids). They showed us how to pick out boots and gloves and introduced us to the different kinds of hats we would need during the winter months. They explained that winter clothing is as necessary for school as new crayons and paper. Minnesota kids go outside to play every day at school unless the weather dips below zero. My kids listened with big eyes and raised eyebrows. 

We learned to appreciate those layers, wool socks, and hats.

We found out that our blood “thickened up” and helped us adjust to life in our cold climate. 

My mistakes that first winter turned into valuable lessons. I found out the hard way you should never try to drive a minivan out of the garage to get the kids to school on time after a snowfall without shoveling first even if it looks like the van should be okay. Whoops. Hello, humility! 

I learned our neighbors had big, warm hearts. They were the kind of people who stopped unprompted on the way to work to help a regretful mom get a van unstuck!

We warmed up to winter and delighted in pulling our kindergartner by sled to the back door of the school. 

I discovered how to be still and listen to the deep silence of a bitterly cold day. 

Icy rainbows, called sun dogs, formed in January and amazed me.  

I learned how to measure the changing of seasons by watching the light lengthen instead of rising thermometer readings.

I began to see subtle beauty in soft, pale winter landscapes. 

Over time, as I adjusted to the new climate, I found myself expanding internally. A place I barely knew at all became a place I loved. Then it became my home. 

We built a beautiful life there in Minnesota, one that I am grateful for today. 

And then we did the unexpected. We said yes to a new opportunity and moved across the country to a new place—again.

We picked up our life by the corners, as if it was carefully laid out on a picnic blanket, and gave it a good shake. 

Now, I live in Alabama, in a temperate climate with mild winters and hot, humid summers. Today, I am learning what to do with porch cushions that never seem to have a chance to dry out. I am rethinking what time of day I walk the dogs. I’m learning what kind of trees grow in our backyard. 

Everything has been topsy-turvy. It took us a while to find the practical necessities, like all of my husband’s shoes packed inside a mislabeled box. It’s taking real effort to remember which drawer the silverware is in.  

I expected this.

What surprised me was that when I shook up my exterior surroundings, I also shook up my interior space. I am putting myself in order just as much as I am putting my house in order. I’m finding the things that delight me and some things I didn’t know were there. 

I’m rediscovering my rhythm of prayer and writing again. These feel like occasions to celebrate, like opening up the box labeled garage and finding Joel’s missing shoes.  

I also watched as pieces of me I didn’t like emerged in the whirlwind of change. Fears, over-functioning behaviors, and resentment slipped out of the shadows and into my conscious awareness. I didn’t like what I noticed. Humility is my first friend in a big move. 

I see all of this as grace. I can invite God into this clutter of boxes and packing paper, of anxieties and fears—the exterior and the interior. God is here in my midst. 

I have another opportunity to witness how an unknown place becomes home. 

Spaces matter—both interior and exterior. Change is an opportunity for expansion. I am ready to learn to love Alabama; to discover beauty in this landscape and people. Each space I live in unveils the kingdom of heaven to me with a little more clarity. 

“To hope is to make a leap, to jump from where you are to someplace better.”

Kathleen Norris in Acedia and Me